Murder with Macaroni and Cheese

by A. L. Herbert

  “This is quite something,” I say to Alvetta, hoping she didn’t hear Wavonne’s comment.

  “This is just the play area. We have six classrooms behind the reception desk. Volunteers teach bible class to the older kids, and we offer supervised play for toddlers and babysitting for infants.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. I mostly went to a Catholic church growing up. Our plan for children involved parents hurriedly taking them to the back of the church if they starting misbehaving during the Mass,” I say.

  “Our children’s program lets parents focus on their worship. It’s very popular.” Alvetta signals for us to follow her yet again. We step back in to the main hallway, and Alvetta continues the tour. She whizzes us past a fully equipped gymnasium, several coffee kiosks that seem to be as well outfitted as any Starbucks I’ve been in, a spacious book and media retail store with long lines at the registers, and a surplus of multipurpose meeting rooms before guiding us up two flights of steps that lead into what she calls “the control room.” From the view through the floor-to-ceiling glass in front of us I can see we are behind the back wall of the worship center just above the balcony seating area.

  “I bet the control room at CNN doesn’t look much different than this,” Momma says, watching the multitude of video monitors, microphones, and switch panels operated by five people wearing headsets at their respective stations.

  “We control all the special effects from up here,” Alvetta says. “The lighting, sound, fog, the curtains . . . there’s a button for everything.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” is all I can muster. I look through the panes of glass and feel like I’m backstage at a Bruno Mars concert. Church attendees are starting to file into their seats on both the main level and the balcony. A few minutes later, men and women in weighty burgundy robes begin their procession into the seats behind the main stage. I do some quick calculating and determine that the choir loft alone seats more than two hundred people.

  “We should head back downstairs. The service will be starting shortly.”

  “Sure,” I say, surprised to find myself excited for the service. After getting a tour of the building and an insider’s look at the control room I’m eager to see how everything comes together for the main event. Something tells me we are not in store for the kind of sleepy church service I grew up attending. Other than it likely being grand and maybe theatrical, I’m not really sure what to expect or how the whole thing will unfold, but given the over-the-top nature of everything else I’ve seen this morning, I can’t wait to find out.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wavonne, Momma, and I briskly follow Alvetta down the stairs and eventually enter the worship center. Alvetta continues to offer quick waves and hellos to the people she passes as she leads us to a small seating area directly in front of the stage.

  “This is the Pastor’s Circle. We reserve it for special guests.”

  Unlike the rest of the seating in the worship center, the chairs in the Pastor’s Circle have a significant amount of leg room and side tables next to them—each one equipped with a bottle of water, a crystal glass, a small bible, a church bulletin, and some mints.

  “Girl, we flyin’ first class,” Wavonne says as we all take our seats, and I must admit it is fun, for the first time in my life, to be in the VIP section of something. “Look at all those jealous heifers givin’ us the eye. That’s right, hookers, we in the Pastor’s Circle! How you like that?”

  “My God! We can’t take you anywhere,” Momma whispers to Wavonne.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” I agree. “Now settle down and behave yourself, Wavonne.”

  Wavonne raises her eyebrows at me before looking toward Alvetta. “Where’s Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth? Won’t she be joining us?” Wavonne says this in a hoity-toity voice, as if she’s Tina Turner on one of her British accent kicks. I wonder who she’s talking about, but Alvetta doesn’t seem to have the same trouble.

  “Raynell will join us after service. She doesn’t really do mornings,” Alvetta responds.

  Thinking about how there are probably all sorts of things Raynell doesn’t do, I grab the church bulletin on the table next to me and start skimming it. There are notices about group meetings, church finances, and community events. There’s also a column called “The Word” by Pastor Michael Marshall. It strikes me as clever that he writes it in longhand, and the church publishes it “as is” rather than typing it up. The cursive writing sets it apart from the rest of the word-processed text and gives his message a very personal tone. I’m about to give “The Word” a read when there’s a dinging noise over the speaker that apparently is a signal for everyone to stand. As Momma, Wavonne, and I follow along with the crowd and rise from our chairs, we see no fewer than ten people take their seats on the left side of the stage and pick up their instruments . . . guitars, horns, saxophones. . . you name it. Growing up, my church had Mrs. Tebbler. . . and only Mrs. Tebbler, who played the organ at the nine- and eleven-o’clock services. Rebirth appears to have a full orchestra. We continue to look on as six people, two men and four women, all dressed in black, take their places behind as many microphones in front of the choir loft.

  The orchestra begins to play an up-tempo melody, and the singers in black with their own microphones (I can only imagine what kind of church politics are involved in getting one of those coveted spots) begin to sing. It’s not long before the entire choir, more than two hundred members strong, joins in, and the worship center fills with music emitting from a state-of-the-art sound system.

  I’m not sure this type of over-the-top service is for me, but I can’t help but feel . . . feel something with the sound of a few hundred stellar voices, accompanied by a talented orchestra, going at full volume.

  “Sing it, girl!” Wavonne calls out as one of the vocalists dives into a solo.

  I look around and see people swaying to the music—some with their arms raised like Eva Peron on the balcony of Casa Rosada. And, just when I think my senses of sound and sight have received their delights for the day, a team of women march in from all sides with glittery flags. They take positions at various spots around the main level and begin twirling the flags every which way to the beat of the music. I must say, the effect is striking. Alvetta catches me marveling over the whole grand display and beams with pride as if to say, “I may be the illegitimate daughter of a maid, but look at me now, presiding over one of the biggest congregations in the state of Maryland.”

  When the music quiets we take our seats, and Michael steps forward from the back of the stage. He’s more handsome than his photo online led us to believe, and he’s only a few words into his address, when I realize why he packs them in by the thousands every Sunday. He’s a gifted speaker with a deep baritone voice and immediately sets the crowd at ease with some self-deprecating humor. He moves about the stage with a headset microphone rather than speaking from behind a podium. Calls of “Preach, Preacher, preach!” and “Amen!” boom from behind us when he makes key points during his sermon. He talks about the heat of the summer and how everyone sweats . . . and then makes a joke about how he misspoke, and everyone but his lovely wife, Alvetta, sweats—“Alvetta’s skin,” he says, “just gets more dewy and lustrous.” A silly joke, but it works because of his good looks, charisma, and command of the stage. He goes on to speak about how we really sweat when faced with temptations from the devil, and I’m not quite sure how he did it, but he uses this segue to seamlessly request that attendees give generously today to keep the air conditioning flowing in the building.

  When the collection basket comes around Momma drops in ten dollars, Wavonne passes it to me without making a donation, and I, mindful of Alvetta’s eyes right next to me, drop in forty dollars, and wonder if it’s enough. Should I have done fifty? A hundred?

  After some additional singing from the choir and some general announcements about the church’s ministries and classes, the service wraps with a final hymn. As I listen to the choir, I make a m
ental note to try and come back to Rebirth over the holidays. I don’t think I’ll be joining as a tithing member any time soon, but I’d definitely be up for a return visit in December—I bet this choir puts on a Christmas concert the likes of which I’ve never heard before.

  At the close of the service, Michael descends the stage, walks toward us, and takes Alvetta’s hand.

  “We’ll just be a few minutes,” Alvetta says as she steps away from her seat and joins Michael at the foot of the stage where they stand in a makeshift receiving line. Most of the church attendees are exiting the worship center from a number of doors on all sides, but a handful come down the walkways toward Michael and Alvetta, who graciously greet them with hugs and handshakes. Wavonne and I watch for a few moments as the two of them interact with church patrons like a well-oiled machine—an extremely good-looking well-oiled machine.

  “If you two want to walk around for a few minutes while Michael and I finish up here, feel free,” Alvetta says after excusing herself from her adoring fans. “I’ll meet you in the café in about twenty minutes.”

  “Sure,” I reply, and, just before our little trio starts to make our way out to the main hall, we catch a glimpse of Alvetta returning to Michael’s side. He’s talking to two young ladies, both wearing short skirts and heels that might be even higher than Wavonne’s. But, even in the towering pumps, the girls still look up at Michael, who stands at about six foot four. You can see the infatuation in their eyes as they listen to whatever words of wisdom he’s sharing with them.

  As we turn to leave, Wavonne leans in. “So which one of those thirsty hos you think he’s cheatin’ on Alvetta with?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Once we’re out in the Grand Hall we meander around, scan the various booths, and eventually stumble upon a large table promoting a retreat. The banner hanging along the front of the display says: POINT AND CLICK YOUR WAY TO THE LORD: USING TECHNOLOGY TO BRING US CLOSER TO GOD. We’re about to continue walking right on past the “point-and-click” table when Wavonne gets a look at the man behind all the promotional materials—a nicely built thirtysomething brother with an angled razor part on one side of his neatly cropped Afro.

  “Hold up.” Wavonne stops in front of the table. “I need to check me out this retreat.” She looks the young man up and down. “What was it Salt-N-Pepa said about bein’ stacked and packed?” she mutters to me.

  “Shoop!” I say with a laugh. The upcoming reunion sparked me to pull out an old Salt-N-Pepa CD. I’ve had it going in the van lately as Wavonne and I drive to the restaurant.

  “Hello, ladies,” the young man says to us.

  “Hello yourself,” Wavonne replies as Momma and I stand behind her.

  “I’m Rick Stevens. I’m part of the church’s Retreat Ministry. We still have a few openings for next weekend’s session if you’re interested.”

  Wavonne shamelessly looks him up and down a second time. “Oh, I’m interested,” she coos. “Tell me more.”

  “We’ll be spending the weekend at The Williamsburg Inn. It’s really an impressive hotel.” He hands Wavonne a hotel brochure, and she begins to look through it. “There’s a welcome reception on Friday evening, seminars throughout the day on Saturday, and an early breakfast on Sunday. We’ll be discussing, among other things, the church’s strategy to expand our outreach via social media. We’ll be holding classes for members about how to effectively use Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and such to promote God’s word and attract new members to the church.”

  “Mmmm . . . fancy,” Wavonne says as she continues to thumb through the brochure. I look over her shoulder and see photos of the hotel—lots of wainscoting, colonial furniture, and heavy drapes. “Will you be attendin’, Rick?”

  “I will. I’m leading a focus group about the church’s Web site. We’ll be reviewing the site in detail . . . determining what works well, and what can be improved.”

  “I know all about Web sites,” Wavonne brags. “I help my girl Jereme with her blog. It’s called ‘Real, Wig, or Weave?’ We put up photos of celebrities, and viewers post commentaries about whether Beyoncé or Viola or Mary J . . . or whoever are sportin’ their own hair, a weave, or a wig. We’ve got hair-care tips and let readers know about specials on products. You should check it out.”

  “Sure.”

  “I think I’d like to attend this retreat. How much does it cost?”

  “The church subsidizes some of the expenses, so it’s only five hundred dollars for the weekend, which includes your hotel room, a complimentary breakfast on Saturday and Sunday morning, and access to all the classes, seminars, and discussion groups. And it’s a great way to meet other church members.”

  “Halia.” Wavonne turns to me. “Loan me five hundred dollars, would ya? So I can go on this retreat with Rick and help him with the church’s Web site . . . and anything else he may need some help with.”

  Knowing that one, Wavonne has no interest in the helping with the church’s outreach via technology and just wants to go to Williamsburg to get all up in Rick’s business, and two, that “loan” and “give” mean the same thing to Wavonne, I respond, “Umm . . . no.”

  “Come on, Halia. Tell her, Aunt Celia, I’ll be doin’ the Lord’s work.”

  “Not getting involved,” Momma says.

  “We have the reunion next weekend anyway, Wavonne. You promised to help me with that.”

  I watch as Wavonne tries to determine if her time will be better spent chasing Rick around at a retreat in which she has no interest or tagging along with me to my reunion where she can spend some time with a retired professional football player who may be able to introduce her to some real live Redskins.

  “That’s right.” She puts the brochure back down on the table. “I need Raynell’s husband to set me up with some football.. . .” She lets her voice trail off as she notices Rick looking at her. “With some footballs . . . yeah, some footballs . . . to give to needy kids.”

  “Yes, we all know you are all about helping needy kids.” I try not to roll my eyes as I say this.

  Wavonne glares at me before turning back to Rick. “How about I leave you my phone number, and you can call me if you ever want to talk Web sites . . . or whateveh.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Rick taps a few times on his phone and hands it to Wavonne. She grabs it from him, enters her contact information, and gives it back to him.

  “Whatever happened to a pen and paper?” Momma asks, looking on.

  Rick extends his hand to Wavonne. She shakes it and then holds it a tad longer than is really appropriate before I remind her it’s time for us to meet Alvetta in the café.

  “There’s a bible-study group meeting now,” Momma says, looking down at the bulletin as we walk through the hall. “I’ll check that out while you two discuss reunion plans with your friends.”

  “Okay. Why don’t we plan to meet in front of the bookstore in an hour?”

  Momma nods and goes looking for the bible-study group while Wavonne and I continue to walk the lengthy perimeter of the church in search of the café.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wavonne and I reach the café, and as we step inside, we realize the café is really more of a full cafeteria with a long line of people making their way through the serving area.

  “Over here,” Alvetta calls to us from a table along the wall. Raynell is seated with her. Michael and another man who I recognize from TV as Terrence are standing next to the table.

  “Hello again,” I say to Alvetta as we reach the table and turn and smile at Raynell. “Hey there,” Alvetta says. “This is my husband, Michael, and Raynell’s husband, Terrence.”

  “Halia Watkins.” I shake their hands. “And this is my cousin, Wavonne Hix.”

  The gentlemen smile, and we exchange a few words. I tell Michael how much I enjoyed his sermon, and how beautifully I thought the choir sang. Then I chat a bit more with Michael about how impressive the church is while Wavonne cozies up to Terrence.

  “So,
you’re a former Redskins wide receiver?” Wavonne asks him.

  Terrence is slighter than I imagined. By no means is he a little guy, but when I think “football players” I think of big burly men—Terrence is built more like a baseball or soccer player. I’m guessing he stands at around six feet tall, and I wouldn’t put him at any more than one hundred and eighty pounds or so.

  “Yes,” Terrence says. “Guilty.”

  “What a career. Three hundred and one catches for 5,220 yards and forty-one touchdowns.”

  Wavonne knows less about football than I do, which is almost nothing. Clearly, she’s been studying up on Terrence.

  Terrence laughs. “Very impressive.”

  “I’ve followed your career since you started with the Skins in ninety-five,” Wavonne lies. She was probably scanning his Wikipedia page when I saw her sneaking looks at her phone during the service.

  “Ninety-five? You had to have still been a child.”

  While Wavonne laughs and curls a strand of synthetic hair, Raynell, who has barely acknowledged us thus far, decides it’s time to put the kibosh on Wavonne’s flirting. “I hate to break up Wendy’s little rehash of my husband’s career, but—”

  “My name is Wavonne.”

  “Yes. Wavonne,” Raynell says, then looks at her husband. “Aren’t you and Michael due in the theater for the big football game?”

  “It’s just a preseason game, but I guess we are,” Terrence says.

  “Theater?” I ask

  “It’s more of a large media room,” Alvetta clarifies. “It has a big projection screen . . . seats forty people . . . leather recliners. . . it’s quite nice.”

  “It was good to meet you.” Terrence shakes my hand again and then Wavonne’s.

  “You too,” Wavonne says. “Before you jet, let me axe you somethin’. Do many Redskins players attend church here? Ever have any . . . any meet and greets?”